


So Green Against My New Clothes

by placentalmammal



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Gen, Humanstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-07 14:43:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3176367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/placentalmammal/pseuds/placentalmammal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kanaya is about to be inducted into the Maryam Vampire clan. On her last night alive, she shares a moment with her mentor, Porrim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Green Against My New Clothes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [urbanMystic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/urbanMystic/gifts).



> "Vampire AU! Either old school Dracula style vamps or Anne Rice vampires. Please avoid Twilight style vamps. Anyway: Kanaya is being inducted into a small but ancient family of vampires: The Maryams. Focus should be either on the ceremony itself or on Kanaya's decision to undergo the process."
> 
> I haven't read Anne Rice and it's been ages since I've read Dracula, but I hope this serves!

It’s a shitty club. The air is hot with writhing bodies and thick with smoke and body odor, and the baseline is thumping loud enough to rattle your teeth in your jaw. The movie-theater carpeting is sticky underneath your ballet flats, and you can taste bile in the back of your throat. You push your way through the crowd, towards the restrooms, because otherwise, you’re going to be sick in your purse.

The bathroom is cooler by a few degrees, but it’s no quieter. The bass is still pounding in your ears, you catch strains of shouted conversations over the music. You rush into the first of the three stalls and fall to your knees in front of the toilet, heaving, but you’ve got nothing in your stomach to bring up. You stay there until you stop shaking, then drag your wrist across your clammy forehead to wipe away the sweat. The nausea subsides, and you slump against the grimy metal stall divider, trembling. Your eyes flick over the graffiti on the tile wall: _im so horny_ and _FUCK the police_ and _this bar sukcs_. There’s phone numbers and dicks scrawled underneath, in sharpie, in ballpoint pen, in chalk, a cacophony of mediums and messages in a hundred different hands. You sigh and press your forehead against the cool metal, for once unconcerned with germs and bacterium.

The door opens and closes behind you, letting a rush of stale club air into the bathroom. High heels click across the tile floor, and there’s a soft knock on your stall door. “You alright?” A cool hand lands on the back of your neck and a black-clad presence crouches down beside you. You turn to see Porrim, a stricken expression on her heart-shaped face.

“Fine,” you say weakly, waving her concern away. “I just needed some fresh air, that’s all.”

“There’s no fresh air in here, darling.” Porrim stands and extends her hand. You take it, wearily, and let her pull you to your feet. Your knees are still week and you stumble, she catches you and guides you out of the stall, into the bathroom. She studies you intently as she leads you to the row of sinks, no doubt taking in the purple bags under your eyes and the hollowness of your cheeks. She tuts and produces a handkerchief from her enormous black bag, then turns the faucet on and wets the cloth underneath the spray. She wipes your neck and forehead with incredible tenderness and you sigh.

“We don’t have to stay,” she says softly. “It’s _your_ night, we can do anything you want.”

“No,” you say, avoiding her eyes. “It’s fine.”

“You’re not much of a liar, little sister.” You glance up. Porrim hands you the handkerchief and fixes you with a gently, motherly smile.

“I’m _fine_ ,” you insist, and it _is_ a lie, not a convincing one. You haven’t been fine for months. You risk a glance in the mirror; and it’s worse than you imagined. Your makeup is smudged, your usually-sleek black hair has lost its luster, your sallow skin is hanging off your skull. You look like death.

Porrim stands beside you, but yours is the only face reflected in the mirror.

You turn to face her. She looks incredible: her black hair shines like midnight, her eyes are a vivid jade, and her bone structure is flawless. You like to think that you used to look like her, before you got sick. Like sisters, but you never had her flair; you were never brave enough to wear wine-dark lipstick and dramatic cat-eye liner.

Looking from your face to hers, it’s hard to believe that you’re alive and she’s dead.

 _Vampire._ It sounded ridiculous, it still does. You’ve read every book they ever published on the subject, with a preference for the novels, especially the romantic ones: Anne Rice, Stephanie Meyer, Richelle Mead, Kristin and P.C. Cast, Charlaine Harris. None of it could have prepared you for the bloody truth of it. Vampires are dead things, monsters. They feed on the blood of the living to sustain themselves, there’s no way around it. It’s not romantic or sexy, it’s blood and vice. Most vampire clans are decadent and corrupt, committing the worst depravities with nothing more than a wink and a smile, but some clans, like the Maryams, try to mitigate their impact on the community. They drink only from willing donors, they recruit only from among the ranks of the dying.

Like you: cancer-ridden, two months to live. When you met Porrim, you had almost resigned yourself to it; begun planning your funeral, choosing flowers and a dress to be buried in. She was waiting outside the hospital doors on an overcast February day, dressed in a black wool coat and a brilliant white muffler. She was salvation, a goddess of the gutters standing amid grey slush and discarded newspapers. She took your arm and led you to a nearby coffee shop and said there was another way. Death need not be the end; you could rise again, in defiance of the scriptures. Undead, unholy, but _alive_ , or something like it.

It’s not as simple as a kiss on the neck. First, you die. This is inevitable, and for you, it will be tomorrow. They can smell it on you, see the misshaped cells running through your veins. After you die, the Maryams will come for you. The rituals last for three days, and at the end of it, you will rise anew, reborn. Porrim hasn’t told you what the rituals entail, but you imagine that it’s unpleasant.

“You’re not okay.” Her voice is gentle, the hand on your cheek even more so. “It’s okay to be afraid, Kanaya.”

“Does it hurt?”

She doesn’t answer immediately. “Dying won’t be any worse than the pain you’re already in, little sister.” She sets the handkerchief on the sink, draws a tube of lipstick from her purse. “Tilt your chin up, be a dear.” She uncaps the tube and twists it up. The color is the same burgundy she favors, a stronger color than you’d ever dare wear. Porrim applies it carefully to your puckered lips and stands back to admire the effect.

“There,” she says. “Now let’s get out of here. C’mon.” She takes you by the hand and leads you out of the club, through the crushing maze of strange bodies. Heads turn as you pass, and you chose to think it’s because you’re beautiful, radiant, even.

The air outside is crisp, cool. It’s unseasonably cold for April, and as Porrim leads you across the street damp breeze caressing your face and cooling the sweat on your skin. You close your eyes and lift your face to the wind. Tonight is your last night alive, your last night as a human girl. Tomorrow, you will be dead, and three days hence, you will be a _vampire_.

A laugh bubbles up from your throat.

“You alright?” Porrim’s eyes are glittering in the dark and the yellow haze of the streetlights throws her features into sharp relief. She looks feral, beautiful, _wild_ , and you’d like to think that you’re going to look like her. Like sisters.

“Come on,” you say. “I want to _live_ tonight.”


End file.
